Hearts and Knives
by DapperT
Summary: Actions have always have consequences, but the worst can be the scar they leave on your mind. Regardless of how much the memory of them is repressed, how far down the memories are buried, they will eventually beg recognition - and it only takes one trigger to relive the worst day of your life. A sequel to 'The Damned Don't Cry'
1. Palaven

Palaven. What a mess.

Why the Hierarchy insisted on keeping their acting-capitol on the planet was nothing more than stupidity, especially after the absolute destruction that the planet had undergone during the Reaper War, at least in the opinion of the Turian looking at the broken skyline.

The broken buildings that he was looking at were all that was left of Palaven's second capitol, Ketus, and he could only contemplate how far it had fallen. Before the war, Palaven had been distinguished, confident, its cities defiantly reaching out into the sky. The Human war hero Jon Grissom had said that everything was silver, and he hadn't been far wrong. In nostalgic memory, it had glimmered in the sun. Beautiful.

Today, it was a ruin, the rubble itself seemingly having its own rubble, even so long after the war. The huge Kinetic Barriers that coloured the sky in a pale blue, that used to be ceremonial nods to the Turian's might, were now the only thing that kept them alive, strengthened to hold out the toxic air and dust caused by the merciless Reaper bombardment during the early stages of the war. Every surviving city relied on it, and a handful had been lost completely when their barriers failed, for whatever stupid reason cost hundreds of thousands their lives.

Even Palaven's Capitol, Cipritine, had suffered this way. It had formed the focus of the Reaper attack, and the subsequent defense, meaning that the toxic air was heaviest around it. It remained uninhabitable, little more than destruction and corpses, even so long after the war.

Rebuilding had begun, de-toxification of the air had commenced, but outside of the more affluent areas that the observer found himself in, the effects were minimal, even six years after the war. The damage that Palaven had suffered dwarfed that of the second most devastated planet hit in the war, Earth. Much of the planet was simply disintegrated due to the severity and length of the fighting. It had taken two years just to restore the political and financial centres in order for Palaven to be a political entity again, with the wider restoration of housing and infrastructure endlessly on-going.

In true Turian fashion, they were also desperately trying to rebuild their military along with their infrastructure, slowing the progress of both.

The result was a stagnated rebuilding effort, with the Turians being left behind in terms of re-development by the Humans and the Asari. That said, only the Humans were making real progress, the Asari suffering a political and aid isolation which many saw as retribution for their refusal to share their technology during the war. And of course, the Salarian's seemed to escape massive Reaper damage, slimy as ever.

"Vakarian, are you there?"

Garrus realised he'd been staring out the window and ignoring the Primarch. "Apologies Primarch, I lost myself for a moment."

He was sitting in the office of the Primarch, attempting to find an adequate balance between infrastructure development and military development. The surrounding bored Garrus immensely, reeking of traditional Turian values, value he'd grown to dislike as a young man years ago. It was spartan, military, and focused entirely on giving off the sense of power, which to Garrus reeked of arrogance. Despite Victus once being seen as a wild-card, Garrus thought, he'd soon assimilated into the establishment once he became Primarch.

"Well, I apologise for boring you." Victus said in a sarcastic manner. "I was just asking about your thoughts we separate the budget into 60-40 segments in favour of the military. We are being overtaken by the Humans; people are beginning to talk, saying that we're no longer the military superpower we were."

"Sir, with all due respect," said Garrus, "We need to put as much of our resources as possible into the air-treatment. We risk every life on Palaven as long as we refuse to commit to it. I've said it for months, and I'm going to keep saying it, our military spending should be dialled back massively. It's mad it's so high, no-one's in the state to fight a war and won't be for years. We're hurting Palaven more by doing too little."

Victus got out of his seat, and walked to the window Garrus had been staring out of, looking out in silence for a moment. "I see the state of Palaven, Garrus" he said mournfully. "This view reminds me daily of my duty to every Turian in the Galaxy."

Garrus rolled his eyes. Victus used this ploy on everyone whenever they disagreed with him, trying to guilt them into his view, it was childish. What annoyed Garrus most was it worked, since at the moment most of the Hierarchy was eating out of Victus' hands, and everyone that disagreed seemed to keep themselves quiet.

Sometimes, it felt like he was the only real critic the Primarch had.

Garrus realised he'd lost himself to his thoughts again, and quickly refocused on the conversation, in time to catch the end of Victus' speech. He was sounding triumphant, as if he had just given a rousing speech (in his mind, he probably had) about how Palaven _was_ her military.

"So you see Garrus, we'd only be doing more damage to ourselves, and to Palaven, if we side-line our military" he finished, looking expectantly at Garrus for the change of heart he hoped would occur. He was disappointed to instead see Garrus sitting in his chair with his arms crossed, looking critically at him.

"So you won't drop it down to at least a 50-50 split?" Garrus inquired. He knew he hadn't a hope of getting what Palaven really needed from the Hierarchy, so he had to make do with what he could do, as much as it made him burn with frustration.

"Certainly not, our intelligence reports from within the Alliance shows that they are quite clearly –"

"We're spying on them now? You didn't tell me this!" interrupted Garrus, shock permeating his voice. "Sir, they're allies, not rivals! Spirits, you've worked with them!"

"I've had it on good word from the Generals that-"

"Victus," said Garrus, addressing the Primarch without his title, "You know as well as I do most of those were fighting against Cerberus during the war. Of course they're going to have an anti-human bias. Most of the other Generals are so old I wouldn't trust their advice on how to clean my rifle, let alone policy! Some fought in the fucking First Contact War!"

Anger flared in the eyes of the Primarch for a brief moment, incensed that Garrus had addressed him with no respect for rank. "Vakarian," he said in a condescending voice, "I see you still persist in using human colloquialisms. Those Generals have done nothing but good for our species, and it is their ability to see the wider picture that we have a military at all."

Garrus stood up out of his chair, and pointed a finger accusingly at Victus. "You don't see how stupid you're all being! It's their ability to 'see the bigger picture' that our planet is still mostly rubble. Every other race has their home planet functioning, Victus, at least they're _habitable_! You listened to them when re-building started, and now they listen to you, and then it reverses. The same lie is being cycled through the Hierarchy!"

He leaned on the desk towards Victus, fury coming out of his mouth. "And to think the Hierarchy used to look down on you. Turns out you're as stupid as the rest of them." He spat out the last line, and instantly regretted it. The Primarch flinched at his words, but against expectations he didn't call for Garrus' arrest, as Garrus expected.

Instead, the Primarch walked back over to his seat, and slowly sank into it, looking at the desk in front of him.

"I think it would be best," he said with a low, quiet voice, "if we continue this discussion tomorrow."

He hit a button on his terminal, and his aide walked into the office, gesturing for Garrus to follow her. Victus didn't seem to register the entry.

She was about the same height as Garrus, and had red colony markings on her face, forming a faint T shape across her eyes. She looked at Garrus with a practiced annoyance, since situations like this seemed all too common whenever Garrus was having a meeting.

"I think that would be best, thank you Primarch." Garrus agreed hastily as he left the room, fearing that Victus would suddenly re-emerge from his funk and demand an arrest. Disrespect to the Primarch was a serious matter, even to the advisors, so Garrus was aware he was on thin ice.

He shut the door with a slam in his haste, Garrus wincing slightly at the sound, quickly moving away.

"You shouldn't aggravate him you know" came a voice, as he found himself being embraced from behind. Garrus allowed himself a smile.

"I'm sorry Juana, but it's what I have to do" he said. He grabbed her arms and spun her round, so that she was facing him. "If only he'd listen to me, but all he does is listen to his precious Generals. Damn wastes of space, all of them."

"You say that every time" she said in a teasing voice. "Maybe just toe the line every now and then. You'd achieve more in his good moods."

"I'd feel like my job was meaningless then", he said as her held her tighter, "and experience has shown me my job isn't totally meaningless. I've got someone to look after now, and I'm not changing that."

She laughed, extracting herself from Garrus' grasp giving him a light push. "That's quite the view of things you have there. You know that I'll have to deal with his anger later right. No doubt I'll have a sudden flurry of work to deal with, and it'll probably be your fault. He knows we're together."

"At least I keep your work-day interesting."

She laughed again as she walked to her desk and sat down at her terminal, quickly looking at her emails.

"And there it is, the stuff that'll probably keep me here till midnight. Garrus Vakarian, I'd punch you right now if I didn't happen to love you!"

"You're so mean, and I'm ok with that" he said, moving towards her as his voice dropped an octave.

She waved him off. "As much as I appreciate the romance," she said, "I seriously have to get this work done, so get out of here! I'll see you later!"

Garrus smiled, and the two moved together, connecting their foreheads in a Turian kiss. He held it for a few moments.

"I love you" he said in a hushed tone.

"Same here," Juana replied as they moved away from each other, "Go make us something nice for tonight, you haven't got anything else to do here."

"And how would you know?" he asked questioningly.

"For all your ex-mercenary skill and prowess, you still set your password as me. Cute, but very easy to guess."

Garrus began to walk towards the exit, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "That's a serious offence you know" he said in the best disapproving tone he could do.

"So arrest me!" she called after him, before both laughed to themselves.

Garrus left into the corridor, and immediately went down the nearest elevator. He felt a lot calmer after talking to Juana, but he still had to think of some way of stopping the Hierarchy's crazy ideas over what 'redevelopment' meant. They were all idiots, and he felt like he was talking to a wall sometimes. He leant back onto the side of the elevator and sighed. Sometimes he hated his job.

The elevator came to a stop, and within minutes he was leaving the building, his mind still thinking about possible solutions. The building opened up onto a street which was clear of the rubble that remained doggedly in some areas of the city, and was bustling with people. Garrus quickly intermingled, feeling comfortable in the masses. If anything, it reminded him of his days as Archangel, where he was able to perfect the art of disappearing into a crowd. He looked back on memories like that rather fondly, being out there and doing stuff rather than being bogged down by bureaucracy.

Who ever thought he'd miss Omega?

"You're getting old Vakarian," he said to himself, "you're thinking like you're an old man."

He was quite self-absorbed until his mind flared an alert. He had seen something.

What had he seen?

There it was again. A glint from a window. He had seen such glints before, and once upon a time it would have been him behind it, since it was the distinct glint that a sniper scope gave off.

Garrus kept walking, so as not to alert the possible sniper, and began to look for ways out. The crowd around him was tick with people, and he knew that even the most amateurish assassin would never risk a shot in a crowd. He was also aware that a sniper looking on a crowd could mean the target was anyone, but as one of the Primarch's closest advisors – on paper at least – Garrus surmised that the sniper could be for him. Although why someone would try and kill him with a sniper who didn't even know how to mask their scope glint was beyond him.

He moved his toward the edge of the crowd, looking for a side-street to duck into, when he became aware of a laser dot on the wall next to him, confirming his fears that the sniper was for him.

"Damn amateur though" he thought. The sniper wasn't trained on him before using it, and instead showed it, however briefly, in front of him. If someone was gunning for him, couldn't they even afford a decent assassin? He felt almost insulted.

The crowd around him began to thin, and Garrus became aware that his protection in the crowd was beginning to wear away. As he thought this, he saw the red spot again, first on the floor in front of him, before quickly moving to his chest.

"Crap!" he cried out, and he dived to his side just as a shot sounded out, and he became aware of a burning pain from his leg. He hit the floor heavily, and quickly looked at his leg. The shot sound was distinctive, clearly coming from a Mantis, and he knew they could be powerful beasts if used properly. Fortunately, his lunge seemed to have been well timed, his leg suffering only a deep, but clean, wound.

When he looked at it, the pain emanating from it increased ten-fold, and he cried out, clutching the wound. Around him, the crowd was running amok, startled and terrified by the sound of the shot, and behind him a woman was groaning, clutching a wound in her side, seemingly hit by the ricochet. He could see some of the Primarch's guards running from the building he'd come from a mere hundred yards behind him, and he was vaguely aware of them treating his wound.

They formed a barrier around him while medi-gel was applied, with one of them also treating the woman behind him, all scanning the buildings for any more attackers. Security forces were moving into the building that the shot had originated from, and within moments he could hear a short exchange.

At least the massive military spending meant that there were military personnel virtually everywhere in these cities, he thought grimly.

"Wound's sealed sir" said the soldier applying the medi-gel to the leader of the squad protecting Garrus, but he was still slipping away into unconsciousness, the pool of blue blood by his leg making evident the extent of his blood loss.

"Get medical here, damn it," he heard, "The Primarch's not going to like this."

The world slowly seemed to become darker to Garrus, before he found himself within a void, his thoughts ceasing. His head fell limp to the ground.

"Is he alright?" shouted the squad-leader to the medic treating Garrus.

"He's fine sir, mostly, he's passed out"

The squad-leader looked up from the unconscious body of Garrus Vakarian, and could see the corpse of the assassin, a Turian wearing civilian clothes, being dragged out of the building, his Mantis rifle being carried by one of the responders. "At least we got the sniper" he said to his men with satisfaction.


	2. Whoever won the Reaper War?

Weeks passed, and they passed on to months.

The recovery felt every moment of it, being slow and laborious. It took weeks for Garrus to regain full movement of his hurt leg. Months to walk on it.

He found himself interned on one of the Orbital stations floating above Palaven, the home of its orbital defences and, due to necessity, an abundance of refugees. Some of them were former residents of the planet who'd found their homes encased in the toxic clouds that dominated Palaven. Others had survived shield breaches in the cities. Others had just drifted towards them, wanting to remain close to the Turian Home-world. Many of them had become overcrowded as a result, reminiscent of the Quarian ships when they were still dependant on their fleet.

The station that Garrus found himself on had no such problems though, being kept solely for those within the Hierarchy. Of all the stations it was the best, and almost fully restored to its pre-war situation, having the greatest living and medical facilities under Turian control In the Galaxy.

Garrus hated it; to him it stunk of exuberance. He remembered the discussions about re-building it not long after being given his job as advisor. All the Generals had to do was state its value to the military, in particular the leadership of said military, and all of a sudden it had become a priority, despite every other concern they had. Millions, if not billions, had been wasted, in his view, on this.

Thinking back, it was the beginning of Victus' assimilation to the established order really. For how much the Reaper War changed things, it was uncanny how things stayed the same.

He was in his quarters on the station, officially 'recuperating' from his wound. While his injury wasn't quite healed, he knew he was still capable of being an advisor, he didn't need legs for that, but he was being kept out the way. If he didn't know better, Garrus would suggest he was being isolated. It felt like the Hierarchy were punishing him as if he was an outspoken child.

The worst part was that he had no contact with anyone beyond occasional emails, mostly to Juana, and most of the people on this station were hardly sociable. It must be what John felt during his arrest by the Alliance-

"Oh no Vakarian, don't bring him up" he said to himself. He knew that was a bad road to go down.

At least his quarters were nice. It was spacious and well stocked, with some of his personal effects decorating the room. Juana had been able to send up some of his photos and such to put around. The pictures were of his times on Palaven with her, others from his days on Omega, and some with his family, back before the war. His years away from Turian ships and their traditional customs had led him to enjoy decorating his personal spaces rather lavishly, at least by Turian standards.

After all, when you spend your days calibrating guns, you want something to look at.

But Garrus wasn't focusing on his personal décor. He was sitting on a sofa facing a large window, showing the surface of Palaven. Most of it was grey, as if covered by fine dust, and Garrus knew far too well what that was. It seemed to represent the most persistent enemy he'd ever had, and he'd fought the Reapers. Next to him was a small table with a Carnifex pistol on it, the only weapon Garrus had got permission to transport to the Station. Many of his free hours before his injury had been spent assembling, disassembling, cleaning and improving weapons – to the extent it had become one of his most satisfying pursuits.

The pistol wasn't exactly his Widow rifle, or the other multitude of weapons at his home, but it was better than nothing.

He heard a chime, alerting him that someone was outside his door. He lifted himself from his seat casting the sight of Palaven from his mind. He had almost perfected that into an art-form, casting things from his mind, thanks to necessity. He had no doubt that he'd go mad if he hadn't, both due to his issues with the hierarchy and… previous actions that were better left forgotten.

The chime came again, and Garrus moved towards the door quicker, irritated, but also slightly elated, at the insistence of whoever was there. Usually when he had people come – typically just doctors or those on essential business – they were really cautious about getting his attention due to his position in his Hierarchy. Truth be told, he was glad that someone finally seemed to not care about, or at least be unaware of, the rules that the Hierarchy imposed.

He reached the door and opened it, to be met with nobody. There was no-one there.

Garrus took a step into the corridor and looked up and down it. It was a sterile white, with doors leading to rooms such as his dotted along it, but none showed signs of being opened recently. Also, the corridor was of sizable length, too long for anyone to call him and run, at least in the time he had left them.

He was standing, completely alone, the station in silence.

He shook his head, and retreated into his room once more. He would have to report this to maintenance, since his door alarm must be malfunctioning, as irritating as that would be. Most of them down there seemed workshy.

He returned to his seat, his vigil looking over Palaven.

"You know, Mr Vakarian, I was told you hadn't lost your Mercenary edge. I'm disappointed."

Garrus' instincts flared, as he grabbed the Carnifex from the small table next to him. The voice had come from behind him, so he surveyed the room. His apartment was mostly open plan, with him standing in the living area. Behind and to the right of that was his bed, and to the left was a kitchen area. The bathroom door, the only part of his quarters removed from the rest, had the door firmly closed, and Garrus knew he would've heard it open. He continued to cover the room with his gun, but he couldn't see anyone.

"Show yourself!" he shouted to the intruder. "I warn you, I served with C-Sec, the SSV Normandy's strike team and other Turian ops. I know how to use this pistol, and I will use it on you if you don't show yourself."

He spotted a glimmer next to his kitchen, and his brain instantly recognised it. Only Infiltrator cloaks gave of such a glimmer to the air, and the more he focused on it the more he could make out the thin outline of a figure, leaning against the wall.

"I can see you there," he said to the intruder, pointing his gun at him to reinforce the point, "de-cloak now or I shoot."

"Fine" came the disembodied voice, before the glimmering figure took a more solid form. He was quite clearly human, the voice evidently male, wearing a helmet that completely obscured his face, and had his arms crossed against his chest. He was wearing full-body armour, with a red and black colour scheme. Garrus guessed he must have slipped past him when he went to check the door. Spirits, he was losing his edge if he hadn't noticed this human.

"I suppose you're here to finish your friend's job. Well, firstly; you'll end up dead just like him if you try. Secondly, the cameras in this room should mean a security team will burst through that door in about a minute, so I advise you to follow my instructions."

The human didn't say anything at first, but Garrus could just make out the eyes behind the helmet surveying him, analysing him, before snapping to his eyes, giving him a neutral stare. The armour seemed familiar to Garrus, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Firstly, Mr Vakarian, none of us are going to die. Secondly, those 'cameras' have been playing a loop since before I walked in. Anyone monitoring them – and trust me, this station seems to have a special interest in what you're doing – will see a Turian looking out the window, sitting on his sofa."

Garrus clenched the grip of his pistol, and this was something clearly picked up on by the intruder, as he stood straight and exaggerated putting his arms in the air.

"I'm not here to finish anyone's job; I'm here on my own business. I just want to talk." He said, not losing eye contact with Garrus.

Now that Garrus could see the full details of the humans armour, his arms no longer masking the chest, he was surprised to see where he remembered the armour from. It was N7, the emblem displayed confidently on the chest-plate.

"It's been a long time since I've met an N7" he whispered to himself, before pulling himself out of his brief reverie. "Why should I believe you?" he demanded.

The human took a step towards him, keeping his arms in the air. "I take it you remember Commander John Shepard?"

The reaction from Garrus was instantaneous, his Carnifex lowering slightly, with his mandibles reacting in shock. Not that the N7 need look at them, the surprise was clear in his eyes.

"Ho- how… why should I believe you?" he said, the threatening tone of his voice clearly gone as he raised his pistol once more. His hands were shaking once more. "No-one's heard from John Shepard in years."

"Guess I'm breaking the mould" said the N7 plainly. "If you give me the opportunity," he pointed towards the seats behind Garrus, "I can tell you about meeting him. See if you believe me."

A part of Garrus instinctively distrusted the N7. He had infiltrated what was supposed to be the most secure orbital station around Palaven, somehow discovered that this was where Garrus was residing – which was supposed to be kept secret in lieu of the assassination attempt on him – and had mentioned John. He was fairly sure that anyone who had looked into his past, anyone that had even lived through the Reaper War for that matter, would know of his once-close affiliation to the man. They had been like brothers once…

Don't think about it.

It was unlikely that this man had met John. This was more likely an attempt to lull him into a false sense of security, thinking he'd be receptive to reminiscing.

But still, Garrus couldn't bring himself to reject what the man was saying. He was N7, clearly not a cheap Mercenary like the one that tried to shoot him, and he had more than enough chances to kill him already. Only amateurs wanted to talk to their targets, as if they were in some cheap action movie, and N7's were far from amateurs. He was also quite clearly unarmed, which while it didn't completely remove his status as a threat – he'd seen the hand-to-hand combat proficiency of N7's himself after all – it did suggest that he wasn't here to hurt him.

And the mention of John struck a chord within Garrus. He refused to admit it to himself, attempting to convince himself that it was a trap, but anyone could have walked through that door and said that they had met John, and he still would've listened to them. For six years, his life had been marred by guilt and concern over his former friend, despite his personal insistence to not think about it. He was desperate for news and had been for a long time.

"Ok," Garrus said cautiously, slowly lowering his gun, "I'll hear you out."

Garrus walked towards the seats in front of the window, gesturing for the N7 to follow him. He told the man to sit on the sofa, but he himself refused to. He leant back into the corner next to the window, where he could see the N7. He still held the Carnifex in his hands, though not pointing directly at the N7 anymore.

The man sitting before him sat down stiffly, not out of tension but out of readiness. He refused to make himself comfortable to an extent that it would slow his reaction time, still aware that he was unarmed with someone who could potentially shoot him.

"What's your name?" began Garrus in an interrogative tone.

"Call me Steven" he replied.

"Is that what he called you?"

"Yes."

The two fell into an uncomfortable silence for the briefest of moments, but it felt like an eternity to both of them, both tense in the presence of an unknown quantity. Steven's instincts were flaring at him to disarm Garrus, or at least convince him to put the gun down. He was used to working in the shadows, even in intense fire-fights, but the situation made him uneasy, knowing that if Garrus turned the gun on him, there would likely be little he could do.

Garrus felt uncomfortable that this might just be some assassination ploy.

"Surely it must be that, rather than the mention of John" he thought to himself.

Steven broke the silence, keen to try and diffuse Garrus' reservations about him. "I met John a few months ago-"

"Where?" interrupted Garrus bluntly.

"I can't answer that. He was paranoid about the Alliance finding out where he is."

Garrus gave a dry chuckle, despite feeling no humour. "He doesn't want to be dragged back into their world. Can't say I blame him, I wouldn't in his position. But I've got no love for the Alliance, they messed with his crew as well as him, so I'm hardly going to betray him. Where did you meet him?" He looked at his pistol, and raised it slightly. "And after all, I'm the one with the gun."

Steven eyed it for a moment, before nodding slightly. "I met him on Earth. A bar in one of the cities, Tokyo."

"So you spoke to him," stated Garrus, "right under the nose of the Alliance. You know they think he's off-world. There was a sighting only last week on Eden Prime, and they've formally requested the Hierarchy aid them, secretly of course, that we aid in the search. Who knows what they still want with him?"

"I can imagine" said Steven with a shrug. "For all I know, and I say this with trust," Garrus nodded in response, "He could be anywhere. From what I gathered, he moves frequently. He was planning to get a shuttle to Moscow a few hours after we talked – although I don't think any sighting of him is legitimate. He's unrecognisable, even I didn't recognise him and us N7's almost revere him."

Garrus absorbed this information for a moment, and turned away from the man sitting in front of him, despite his misgivings. He looked out of the large window, contemplating John for just a second as he looked across at Palaven, before catching his own reflection. He stared at it, feeling something indescribable rise within him.

"Did he tell you?" he asked, without turning his gaze from the reflection.

"About what happened at the end of the war?" came the response from behind him.

"Yes," Garrus turned away from the reflection back to the unmoved form of Steven, "About what… happened between me and him."

"He did."

Garrus sighed, moving back towards the sofa, and took a seat at the side opposite from Steven, casting his pistol to the floor, forgotten as he became unable to stop the memories of the Normandy's shipwreck from coming back to him. He put his head in his hands, as the all-consuming guilt, a guilt which he hadn't felt since John forced the truth from him in that hospital room six years ago, forced its way into him. He took a deep, laboured breath, shuddering slightly as he exhaled.

Steven felt a pang of sympathy for the Turian in front of him, and began to question his decision to come here, but he got rid of that sentiment. He was here now, and he would see it through.

"Tell me what he said" said Garrus weakly, refusing to lift his head out of his hands. "Tell me how he feels."

So Steven told him. His run in with the thugs at the bar, John clear decent into a shadow of the image the Alliance portrayed him as. He told Garrus of his inability to fight, and his uncaring nature, bolstered by a suicidal defiance.

He told Garrus of their conversation in his rented room; John's experience regaining consciousness, his concern for the crew, and that fateful hand-over ceremony where he pieced together the truth, followed by his confrontation with Garrus in his hospital room. He finished with John's brief recollection of his experiences post-war, most notable his dealings with the local crime boss in Tokyo.

After he had finished, Steven observed Garrus for a moment. His hands were no longer in his hands, instead he was slouching forwards, his hands forming fists, languishing in a stunned silence.

"So… he ordered that attack on me" he choked out.

"Not while sober… but he did. I'm sorry."

Garrus didn't respond for a moment, and Steven wondered how he'd react. Would he fly into a rage, or break down in front of him? Garrus seemed simultaneously on the edge of both reactions, his fists tightly clenched and shaking, but his face read of complete sorrow. That much was evident, even without a good knowledge of Turian expressions.

Garrus refused to perform any of those actions however, and instead stood up, walking back to the kitchen behind him, despite a weak feeling in his legs. His gut was churning, and it felt as if a huge weight was crushing him. He opened a cupboard, and pulled out a bottle of Cerevia, a strong alcoholic drink enjoyed by many in the Hierarchy, and began to drink it straight out of the bottle. He cherished its burn as it went down his throat, and prayed the powerful buzz it was loved for would reach him soon.

Steven watched this with concern, and pondered the difference between Garrus and John, both seemingly quick to turn to alcohol when thinking of what happens. "You shouldn't – "he started, before shrugging. Who was he kidding; he'd do the same if he were in that man's position.

He got up and walked to the Kitchen area. Garrus was leaning on the counter, taking long swigs from his bottle. He stopped when he became aware of the N7 next to him.

"At least… at least I believe you now." He said.

"I suppose."

Garrus took one last drink, before placing the bottle on the counter next to him. His breathing was slow and deep. "I should be shocked that John wanted me dead, drunk or not. I should feel pissed off at him. But I don't. I feel the opposite."

Garrus' voice had a dead nature that unsettled Steven, being a long-shot from Garrus' tone before. It was scarily close to John's tone when he had spoken to him in that rented room all those moths ago, and he wouldn't wish what happened to John on anyone. At least not to those that didn't deserve it.

Garrus turned his body completely, standing straight and looking into Steven's eyes through his helmet. "I feel worse that he didn't succeed. If he wants me dead, that's his right."

"That's not a healthy thing to think-"said Steven, but he was interrupted.

"When I heard he had disappeared from his hospital room, when he first went missing, I knew at that moment I had stolen his life from him. He confided in me during the war, and you know he had a dream that he shared with Tali. A small house on Rannoch, away from the chaos they had known almost all their lives, where they could live a quiet life till they died. Nothing special, and nothing unachievable, but that was his dream. And I took it from him."

Garrus began to shout, bolstered by the speed with which the alcohol in his system was reaching him, and Steven took a slight step back, saying nothing.

"These last few years, I've refused to think about it. I couldn't think about it, because I knew that if I did, I'd go crazy. I know how much I don't deserve my entire life, because I did something horrendous. It was murder, plain and simple, and here I am in the Hierarchy, with a life. I have someone I love, a nice apartment, and even some friends. But why do I deserve any of that?" he took a breath, shuddering even more than he had when being told about John's state.

Although he could was still looking straight at Steven, he didn't seem to truly see him, his eyes acutely wild in a fusion of strong alcohol and memories, with guilt and self-loathing permeating them.

"And the best bit? I was _praised,_ " he spat out the word with a strong disgust, "by some in the Hierarchy. They said I did my 'Turian Duty', making the hard decisions that 'the weaker species couldn't'!" In a moment, he grabbed the bottle from next to him and threw it across the apartment, forcing Steven to leap out of the way, watching it shatter in a flurry of glass and liquid in front of him.

"Fuck all of them!" he cried, before sinking down to the floor, sitting there in a charged silence.

"Fuck them all" he whispered meekly.

Steven began to get back up from his resting place after jumping out of the way of the bottle, sensing the short psychotic episode was coming to a close. He saw Garrus, sitting deathly still in the corner of the Kitchen, and began to move towards him, before Garrus put a hand out towards him, stopping Steven in his tracks.

He looked up with dead eyes, clearly re-living the events of the Normandy's crash more vividly than ever before. "It was hell, as most of the hands phrased it. We had barely any supplies of anything, except for all of that ammunition… and we couldn't eat that. It felt like the entire Cargo bay was just a hospital… We put Tali in the airlock, trying desperately to keep everyone alive. Some of the wounded always seemed to scream, either from their wounds or their dreams. So did we. But we managed, for a time. We rationed. We co-operated. We ignored the wounded cries as best we could while we repaired the ship. But then we ran out of most of our medical supplies."

"We were down to medi-gel and some painkillers, most of it for battlefield application. We… couldn't help the seriously wounded. I tried to convince myself that it would be ok, that if we could get home quickly, we could save most of them. When we were able to get the Normandy space-worthy, I thought 'yes, we're going to make it!'"

Garrus took another laboured breath before continuing. "Joker, out pilot, came to me with the projected course. As the acting captain, I had to make sure the necessary actions were taken to safeguard our journey back… and my heart sunk when he showed me the projections. EDI, our on-board AI, was down – found out later it was due to her Reaper programming, she was caught in the self-destruct code that the Crucible sent out – so Joker had done the maths himself, aided only by our back-up VI. That was what had made the projections take so long… They said it would take us at least a week to get back into the Sol system, provided we survived exiting the atmosphere."

Steven knelt down in front of Garrus, feeling sorry for the Turian in front of him. "You had to make a decision to protect the crew." He said.

"Did I defend the crew though? I knew at that moment, that the heavily wounded would have to go. Joker's predictions could've been inaccurate, and we were low on food anyway. Couple that with the dangers of flying in a ship that barely functioned correctly, and I knew that we were going to need all the medical stuffs we had – and we did as well. But that would've meant abandoning the wounded. So I gathered the Senior Officers and told them of our situation."

Garrus grimaced. "We went into the Cargo bay, followed by some of the crew, all carrying weapons. Some of the crew tried to stop us. They gathered around our Chief Medical Officer, Karin Chakwas. It was a couple of the hands, and one of the Strike team."

"The Strike Team member was someone I'd known since I first joined the Normandy, a man called Kaiden Alenko, and he was the most outspoken of the group. They had guns, and refused to give up the wounded, accusing us of acting like a mob. I told them it had to be done, and if they didn't get out of the way, they would be treated as threats to the ship. Kaiden pleaded with me, pointing his gun at me, to not do it, asking me how John would view what I was doing. And I just shot him, there and then."

"I'll always remember the look of shock he had as he looked at the hole in his chest, and then at the pistol I was wielding by my hip. Despite the gun he had pointed at me, I don't think he thought I'd actually attack him; none of them did, let alone kill. He had barely hit the floor than the others that had backed him moved aside, all of them looking at me with pure fear. I'd seen that look before, and it made me sick, since that was their face when we were flying into the final assault on Earth."

"I ordered the crew that would listen to take the wounded that couldn't walk outside as I lowered the Normandy's cargo doors. Those that had tried to stop us looked on in horror, and I can't say that I blamed them. It was monstrous what we were doing, and I knew it."

"Once we had got all the wounded outside, I ordered the rest of the crew in. I told them that the blood wouldn't be on their hands, and that they didn't need to see this. They all left quickly – I think for some of them the reality of what they were doing was catching up with them – and closed the Cargo doors behind them. It took me a few minutes to do…" He trailed off, unable to finish.

"Was Tali part of that group?" Steven asked.

"No… she wasn't. She was still in the airlock, so she was last. Once I'd finished, I walked around the ship and opened the airlock. She was lying on the stretcher we had been using for her, and she was just about conscious. She'd been in and out of delirium ever since we pulled her on-board the Normandy after the rush to the beam in London. It was a wonder she had survived so long, I think it was only her exposure with John to human bacteria that kept her alive. It would've been better if she had just passed away -"

"I was tempted to move on. She was as close to me, if not closer, than Solana. She was as close to me as my actual sister. The others had been faces, either from the Turian squads Joker had insisted we pick up, or crewmembers of the Normandy who I didn't know so well, but this was like executing family. But I knew that it'd be impossible. We couldn't keep her alive, and I knew I couldn't hide her."

Garrus stood up, startling Steven and forcing him to back up, re-enacting what had happened as if he were unaware of Steven or where he was. He walked forward a few paces, and looked down as if he were looking at a bed. He placed his arm down and clutched his hand, as if he was holding someone's hand.

"I said 'Don't worry, it's going to be ok' and her eyes opened. Without her visor, I could see her eyes positively shone with a pure light, undiminished by her delirium."

Garrus recoiled, taking a step back, coughing violently as he fell to his knees. Steven continued to watch in silence, unwilling to interrupt what was occurring in front of him.

Garrus lifted himself back up, and raised his right arm as if he were holding a pistol, moving back to where he pictured the bed to be.

"I walked towards her, my pistol pointed at her, trying desperately to both pull and not pull the trigger at the same time. I was so conflicted… so so conflicted. And then… then she raised her arm."

Garrus' arm began to shake wildly.

"She raised her hand out towards me, holding her arm out to me, as if she was asking me to stop. I don't know how aware she was, and that's the most terrifying thought of all. To think she might've been aware of what was going on?"

His trigger-finger pulled, and instantly Garrus was thrust out of the memory and back into the room with Steven, shaking terribly, before falling to his knees, once again returning to the floor.

"I've never forgotten that day." He said to Steven.

"John," began Steven slowly, empathy breaching his voice as he attempted to upkeep his neutral tone, "didn't tell me about that. Not in such detail."

"He wouldn't know the details. I didn't tell him and the Alliance covered it up." He looked up towards Steven. "There's a reason I always tell myself not to think about what happens. I did that once with Juana and it scared her. Spirits it terrified her."

"Juana?" questioned Steven.

"My mate, Juana Opicius, the lover I mentioned. Nothing official yet" he answered. "She was asking about the war not too long after we got together and I, well, I wasn't as practiced at repressing the memory."

Garrus took a series of deep breath, struggling to recover from his experience. It had been worse last time, he had tried to turn a gun on himself last time as Juana said, embroiled in the memory even deeper than he had been just, but it was still a terrible mental ordeal. He had lived through that event three times now, and each time he sunk into a depression lower than he thought he could reach.

"Why did you come here?" Garrus asked, curious as to why Steven came. He wanted to feel angry at the human for causing him to remember that day, but he was too exhausted, too worn out, to feel strong emotions.

"I needed to see" came the simple response.

Garrus looked at the human in an evident disbelief. "You came here just to see how I'd react?"

The human sat down in front of Garrus, looking at him with intensity. "Garrus Vakarian, to us N7's, Commander Shepard is beyond the hero of the galaxy. He is the epitome of all that N7 should be; strong, resilient and capable. Ready to defend humanity and the System Alliance by any means necessary, regardless of how questionable our missions can be. If we see anyone falsely wearing N7 armour, we tend to over-react violently, because of how much we've given up to the costs that carrying that armour means. We've earned it, hence why I was initially threatening to John when I first met him."

"So when I saw the hero of the N7's in such a state, I was shocked. His last words to me were so disparaging to our unit I admit I was shocked. What he said was 'In my experience, N7s tend to end up damned or dead', and to be frank I didn't know what to do with that. Knowledge that our proclaimed hero hated what the Alliance had become and what they did to N7s was difficult to process. So I decided I had to learn what happened on that ship, from someone who was there, to give myself proper context."

Garrus began to laugh, a wild laugh that was clearly uncaring of appearing inappropriate or crazed. "So its context you want?" he said through his laughter. "You broke into this station, forced me to relive the worst day of my life, all for context?"

Steven mentally kicked himself for his poor choice of words. "John made me question what the Alliance really is. I'm an N7, I know there's dirty business going on that they partake in, I'm no idealist. Hell, I've been involved in those kind of affairs enough times to realise that. But everyone in N7 tells themselves that it's for the greater good, it defends Humanity. When John left me in that room, I began to question if it was doing more damage than good, to us. They reduced Humanity's hero, my hero, to a drunk and uncaring vagrant. What does that say?"

"You sound like an idealist to me" said Garrus with a hint of scorn. "You work in Black Ops. What did you think was going on, that the Alliance was free from Politics? And I recall, wasn't it me that did that?"

"Look, it's just different when Commander Shepard is the one telling you it. Telling me about how the Alliance, not you, treated him as if he were a VI rather than a person. I tried to move on, I did, but what he said to me just wouldn't go away. I stopped feeling that what I was doing was making the difference I told myself it was, and questioned if it was worth sacrificing my humanity for."

Garrus reminisced for a moment. "John always had a way of changing you, even in the briefest on conversations. I've seen him convince hardened mercenaries to walk out of their jobs. Could've killed the guy, but no. He convinced him to leave."

Steven nodded, and began to get up. Garrus remained sitting, watching the human. "I guess I just don't want to end up like him." Steven said, his voice suggesting deep-seated fears. "I saw his state, and sitting in that room I thought 'What if I become that?". I could handle death, and I've made… difficult choices on missions before, but were will I be in ten years? Twenty? Slowly killing myself in a bar and forgetting everything I was fighting for?"

Garrus lifted himself on his feet. "So he broke through your visage of the stoic Special Operations Operative."

"I guess."

Garrus activated his Omni-tool, looking at the clock it displayed. "Listen, you should get out of here. I have a doctor come to check on my leg soon and," he pointed towards the shattered remains on his bottle, "I need to clear up."

Steven nodded. "Listen," he said, his voice losing the neutral tone that he had tried to use, instead becoming filled with regret, "I'm sorry for coming here, I shouldn't have forced you to remember to settle my own concerns. It was cruel."

"You shouldn't have come" stated Garrus bluntly as he began to pick up shards of glass, looking back as Steven. "But I suppose I'm glad that you did. I got some news about John, so at least I know he's still alive. I might look for him myself; see if I can help him. It's the least I can do to try and repay the debt I owe him."

Steven moved towards the door, preparing to leave, but a call from Garrus stopped him in his tracks. "What?" he asked.

"What are you going to do now?" Garrus asked.

"Well, first things first I get back to Alliance space, and then… I don't know. I'm thinking about leaving the Alliance."

Garrus' head cocked to the side, and Steven qualified what he said. "I'm conflicted about what I'm doing, about whether my job is for the best. I can't afford that, it's dangerous in my profession, I'm sure you understand?" Garrus voiced an agreement, and Steven continued. "After that, I simply don't know. I guess try and get away from the Alliance and do something with myself. Try and think about things, avoid getting too embroiled in the political games that Shepard warned me about."

"I see" said Garrus, as an idea struck him. The human before him was highly skilled, but conflicted. John had placed the seeds of doubt, rightly or wrongly, in his mind about the organisation he worked for, or at least answered to. But it also sounded as if he was still eager to do something. He sounded like he did, back after the destruction of the first Normandy.

"Why did you join the Alliance? What drove you to N7?" Garrus probed.

"A loaded question," Steven mused, as he thought on why he joined. "I suppose I wanted to make a difference, and the recruitment vids made it look like a good way to do that."

Garrus allowed a slight smile to grace his expression. "I take it you've heard of Omega?" he asked.

* * *

A/N: Well, a follow up to 'The Damned Don't Cry'. When I was re-formatting that story, I felt like I could do something a little more with it, so this short piece began to take shape. I hope you all like it, and remember to leave your criticism/hate mail on the reviews or through PMs. Don't be shy!

And by the way, the next chapter of 'The Means to Survival' is in the works, and I hope to get it out in the next few days.


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